Sparks of Power

Magic didn’t just return—it responded.

I’ve been practicing every morning.

Sometimes it’s with the wooden sword, repeating the Dawnbreak forms until my shoulders ache.

Other times, it’s with my hand stretched out toward the sky, trying to summon even a flicker of light.

Lately, it’s been the latter.

Because the last time I felt that spark… it didn’t feel random.

It felt like it knew me.

My mother watches from a distance again.

She used to guide me—soft hands over mine, whispering words I couldn’t understand.

But now, she lets me figure it out. Her eyes are kind, but she doesn’t interfere. Not unless I’m about to hurt myself.

I’m grateful.

But also frustrated.

Because no matter how hard I try—nothing.

No spark.

No warmth.

Just the silence of effort.

Until today.

I’m standing beneath the same old tree that’s always been here.

I stretch my hand out again.

This time, I don’t try to cast.

I just breathe.

And think.

Not about spells.

Not about failure.

But about her.

Her voice. Her warmth. Her lullabies when I couldn’t sleep.

I don’t remember ever being held like this before—not in my old life. Not in that lonely apartment. Not when I died.

But here…

This world gave me something I never had.

A mother who looks at me like I matter.

And that feeling—

That love—

It pulses through me before I realize what’s happening.

A spark.

Not from strain.

Not from focus.

But from feeling.

It leaps from my fingers—just a flicker of gold, gone as quickly as it came.

But it happened.

And my mother’s eyes widen slightly in the distance.

Just for a second.

Then she smiles.

I lower my hand and smile too.

For once, not because I want to do magic.

But because I can.